


Wicked Games

by DeadHearts (criticalkpop94)



Category: JYJ (Band)
Genre: F/M, Original Character - Freeform, an old fic of mine, anyway enjoy, jaejoong - Freeform, not a great writer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-21
Updated: 2018-03-21
Packaged: 2019-04-05 15:19:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14047110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/criticalkpop94/pseuds/DeadHearts
Summary: Inspired from Wicked Games...kinda.





	Wicked Games

Wicked Games

* * *

 

 

The smoky room could have almost given him a high. His eyes glazed as he watched her from across the room. She wore a lacy outfit this time; her long, pale legs and spilling cleavage had already had him turned on. He vaguely remembered the girlfriend he had left behind only an hour ago.

No, he wouldn’t feel guilty about this, not for that bitch. She didn’t love him anymore. Hell, had she loved him at all?

But what got to him was that he hadn’t felt anything when he had seen that sleazy arm slide up her skirt that day.

He erased the recent memory as soon as it surfaced for he could already feel his throat constrict.

She stood across the table from him, the flirtatious smile already decorating her strong features. She was beautiful, he thought. A pity she had to lead such an unfortunate life.

Her long nails fiddled with embroidery on the chair as she looked at him expectantly. He searched for some kind of emotion, any emotion buried in her chocolate eyes. None.

“Another night’s gonna cost ya double kid.”

There she went with the “kid” title. She refused to call him by his name and instead, stuck to “kid”. To a woman like her - one who has to overcome poverty by bedding desperate and bored men who would pay anything for a quick fuck - he would’ve seemed like a kid, despite his 23 years of age.

He did not reply, but stood up. Her posture straightened and much like a programmed android, led him towards the staircase. And as they climbed up, as the music seemed to fade away and creaking of wood filled his ears, the memories of his series of failed relationships flooded his mind.

And when he would be on that bed, when he would undress her, when he would invade her body in desperation, he would say, almost plead, “Tell me you love me.”

Only for a night. Only for tonight. Only to save him from spiralling downwards.

And he would look at her, into her eyes, into her dead and beautiful eyes, and imagine he loved her to his heart’s brim.

And she would stare at the wall behind him as he pounded into her and reply to him a second time, her voice a hollowed whisper: “Sorry…but, I’m not paid to do that.”

And as he would leave the sleazy club, he would look around in caution before stepping out the door. 

And that's when he would let the disgust and shame engulf him. Disgust towards himself, his desperation, his lack of emotion, his inability to love; and shame, towards what he did, had done and was doing.


End file.
